a man's breath smells like rafflesia plant,
their lies, can be smelled even across the mile
the same lips that give you drunken kisses
with the same tongue that touches all your curves and sides.
if my tears can be bottled and stored for awhile,
you will taste a few years later, the most poignant wine
lingering on the back of your throat - you gulped
you'll know that i know what you do (all this time).
YOU ARE READING
death on the supper
Poetry- on the dinner in front of him, we clank our glass and we drink. He looks at me and slowly speak "𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭"
